Greek Baseball

I spent a week in Greece with three friends. While there, we rented bikes so we could get around to the different hot spots on the tiny island. Since we were very clever world travelers, we decided to rent 3 regular bikes, and one tricycle with a large basket in the back so we could transport groceries and day bags and cameras and the like. A novel idea indeed.

The trike was red. Bright red. The basket was white, and there was a horn. The big brass horn with a black bubble to honk it with. It sounded like a horn you would expect to hear if you tweaked a clown's nose. It was a beast to get up hills. Sometimes I thought the pedals were working against me just to have a laugh at my expense. I would work and push and grunt and finally get to the crest of the hill thinking my salvation would be there, and the chain would fall off. By the time I got back on the bike after fixing the chain and coasted down the hill, the sweet reward for my work had already passed.

On our small island of Tinos, there was a big beautiful Greek Orthodox church. White-washed with bright blue trim. The grounds were like a maze and each nook had a different aura of holiness to it. There were prayer rooms which looked like no more than closets carved into the wall with a curtain hanging for privacy and an icon for the devotee to focus on. There was a corner away from the sanctuary that held the cemetary. It was a small plot, and the bodies were only allowed anywhere from 20-50 years to rest, at which point the bones would be stored in a box in a warehouse to make room for fresh bodies to lay for a while.

There was also a path that we noticed while biking to the church. It was carpeted and it led from the harbor to the church. We were unsure what it was for until we stood on the roof of the church surveying the city. From that point we could see the entire path running from the church to where a ferry recently dropped off a group of pilgrims. They were slowly making their way to the church on their hands and knees, praying with their rosaries. The demographics were startling.

There was a man in his mid-thirties who looked as if he was at the end of his rope. If this pilgrimage didn't bring him to God, nothing else would. He had searched for so long the path leading to God. If he couldn't find God at the end of this road, there must not be a God for any road to lead to.

There was an elderly lady. She took a lot of breaks on her way up the hill. She rubbed knots out of her knees and prayed continuously while she worked through the pain of crawling through a city. Her face glowed. She loved her God and this journey was her last gift she could offer him before her body wouldn't allow anything else. Perhaps she didn't realise that her whole life was a reflection of devotion and discipline that she was demonstrating on the meager path.

There were about fifteen other people in the group. They didn't speak to one another. They kept their heads down. Their rosaries running through their fingers with a new fervor as they approached their destination. My band of rugged travelers were on a bit of a pilgrimage ourselves, but none of us dreamt of crawling through a city to a church.

As we wandered through the grounds, we found the sanctuary. It was a large room with walls of plaster. Through the doors we could see the wooden pews and flaming candles everywhere there was a ledge large enough to support the wick. The benches were filled with the faithful, praying to the saints. Everyone was dressed so well that we decided it would be disrespectful to enter in our shorts and t-shirts. We went back to our bicycles.

When we first rented the bikes, we decided that we would ride on a first-come-first-serve basis which meant, "the slow poke gets the trike, sucker." After an afternoon of strolling through a lovely church and seeing the pilgrims making their way up the path, I was lost in thought and taking my time getting to the bikes. I looked up to see my three friends with snarky grins sitting on the bikes, and a big red tricycle staring at me with pouty eyes begging me to love her.

Ugh. You've got to be kidding me.

It didn't help that I was wearing a baseball cap with a brim that rivaled the cowboy hats of the west. I was also wearing a 3/4-length t-shirt with blue sleeves that could have been mistaken for a baseball jersey. I was tired. Maybe a little crabby. I had the face of an angsty teenager who didn't want to ride to the store to pick up groceries for his mom after baseball practice. And as we turned the corner, a priest and his cigarette were confronted with that picture. I fought with my trike to get through the intersection, and when my back was turned to him, I heard him burst out in laughter.

I can still hear you, buddy. You're not inconspicuous.

Those Magnificent Kids and Their Flying Machines

Children are most interesting to watch when they think adults can't see them.

I was watching a little boy at a church picnic who had wandered away from his parents. He was close enough to be within eyesight, but far enough for him to think his parents were too engrossed with their conversation to pay him any mind.

Then began an intriguing game involving ants and blades of grass. Almost immediately his hands and knees were muddy and his shirt had streaks of dirt across the front. He would get the ants to climb up his blade of grass or stick or pine cone or whatever else he could coax them with, and lift them high into the air. At this point, things would get really interesting.

I'm sure you've heard a boy make sound effects. It's an instinct wired into our brains at conception. It probably stems from our cavemen ancestors who couldn't use words and we never evolved out of it. The little boy made sound effects like a pro while making the ants fly around. Each object he was carrying them with came with a new sound. From my untrained ears, I thought I heard a WWII fighter plane complete with firing guns, a bird (probably a raven), and what sounded like an ant (coming from the boy's voice) on a hang glider screaming for precious life itself "Ah! Help! The straps are coming loose and I'm slipping out of the harness!" I may be paraphrasing.

For several minutes, he would pick up his ant and dance around the lawn until the ant fell off its aircraft, or the boy would drop the pine cone and the ant scamper off. Then he would chase it until he lost sight of it, or squished it. At which point the game would start over with a new playmate.

When, during the growing up process, does one stop being fascinated with grass, dirt and bugs? It seems a terrible price to pay for maturing. Playtime goes the way of the buffalo.

I was engaged in conversation for the next part of my story, but when I returned my observations to the boy, he was no longer playing by himself. There were two more children dancing in the grass with him, but they were not terrorizing ants anymore. A little girl had a doll with her and another boy had a truck and an airplane. Some kids don't share very well, but these kids did. I wonder if their parents didn't suggest they bring an extra toy to play with the boy with the stained shirt.

The original boy eyed the airplane and sheepishly asked to play with it. Another interesting thing about children: they don't always ask each other with words. His blue eyes got big. He walked up to the boy holding the toy. He waddled a little with his hips and looked at the other boy expectantly. The other boy handed the plane to him and his lips cracked into the biggest smile only a child can give. He jumped a bit and started running around in circles making more engine and gun noises.

I was tempted to go join in when they sat down with the toys. I couldn't hear what the plane was saying to the doll from where I was sitting, but I'm sure it was significantly more interesting than the dull grown-up conversation I was having.

Night Watchmen

The dead heat of summer will often drive me out of bed at ungodly hours.

Recently I was walking around my neighborhood during a sleepless night. At each corner I was met with a different dog voicing his concern as he fulfilled his night watchman duties. Occasionally I would meet an old man sitting on his porch; smoking a pipe and reflecting on his life, or young lovers oblivious to the wanderer they shuffled off the sidewalk. I didn't mind the inconvenience. I, too, was lost in thought.

Midnight thoughts are not to be trusted. I was filled with more questions than answers. How can I make ends meet this month? When will I get on a plane and explore a new country? How do I get people to like me enough to give me the things I want?

An old man took a cigarette out of his mouth and called out to me.

"Ain't you too young to let troubles keep you up at night?"

I made some excuse about the heat.

"Me, too. It's not my conscience, I can tell you that. Clean as a whistle. I could sleep like a baby if it wasn't for this old knee."

"What's wrong with your knee?"

"Old football injury. Some hook-nosed Swede took a cheap shot tackling me during a game my junior year. Pert near bust it off."

"How did you get a job with a bum leg?" I've learned that if you have the right questions, you can keep an old man talking for hours.

"Things were different in my day. Took a job at the Ford plant until I could work my way up to an office job. Hated every day of it, but I had 3 mouths to feed. Didn't have that physical therapy ya got now, so I just worked through the pain. Probably did more damage than good.
I figured it out, though. Found ways to bring down the swelling after working in the factory all day. My wife would have the ice pack ready for me when I walked in the door. Thirty-seven years with the same woman and we've never eaten dinner at the table. Couldn't put my leg up there. Didn't like my feet where she put her food."

I gave a polite chuckle.

"Yeah, it's been my constant companion for as long as I can remember. It tells the weather better than any forecaster I've seen. Tomorrow should be hot."

"I could've told ya that." I said with a smile.

"Bet you cheated, though."

"You got me. I'm a sucker for the forecast. Only reason I get up in the morning, actually."

Is it just me, or is it required for Minnesotans to talk of weather no matter what the actual conversation is about? It's the common denominator. Regardless of education, class, or religious affiliation, anyone can talk about weather. It's painfully obvious when an outsider hasn't checked the weather that morning and has no idea what to say when he or she is confronted with, "Think it'll be hot next week?"

"Winter is the worst," he continued. "The knee will just seize up mid-stride. One time..."

Those two words filled me with anticipation. Who doesn't love hearing a good story teller tell a good story?

"...I was walking back to my car at the factory when my knee seized up. Locked up just like rusty gear. First time it happened, too. I didn't know what was going on til I fell flat on my face. Couple of the guys from the factory started givin' me a hard time, but there was a new kid who just started working that week. He got all excited. Thought I had a heart attack or something. He flips me over and starts yelling at the top of his lungs for someone to call 9-1-1. I probably would have been a little more concerned about my knee if it hadn't been the look on this kid's face. We had a good laugh at that. Never let him live it down, either.

Nah. At this point nothing short of surgery to make it right. Seems like such a hassle at my age. I know at this day and age I could be in and out of the hospital with a new knee in a matter of weeks, but when you've lived so long with the same hurt, it's hard to give it up."

Nomads

I decided today on my break that I'm not good at corporate America. I don't know if I'll be able to handle a full-time office job for a very long time (5+ years). For which, I commend greatly you who are able to hold out in this system.

This is why the realization came to me: I went for a quick walk on the bike trail outside of the bank where I work, and I saw two vagabonds sitting with their bikes looking sweaty and hungry. They seemed to be thinking, "What could I do today to get enough money to buy a cheap sandwich from Mac-Do's?"

No, they didn't have food, or probably a place to keep their stuff, and they didn't have a fifteen minute break to spend outside. They were not wearing button-down shirts or stiff shoes. They were making plans to watch the river run by for the rest of the afternoon. I was planning on running around the office for the rest of the afternoon.

Their freedom slapped me in the face as my phone vibrated with a new text. The buzzing of the ball-and-chain wrenched me back to reality with the reminder that I could not live the life of a nomad because I like sleeping in a bed too much. I like being fed the cuisine I want, when I want it. It reminded me that if I am going to continue to have the convenience of a device ringing in my pocket anytime a friend wants to send a greeting my way, I had better jet back to my cube, sit in my air conditioned office and wait patiently for someone to have problems with his or her online account. And here I am. Waiting for such a call.